Category: Letter From The Editor

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Death Is a Door

Photo: Annie Spratt | Unsplash

Editor’s note: This issue of the Memphis Flyer is dedicated to Hailey Thomas, a member of our work family who passed away last week. We welcome you to read this week’s Last Word to get a glimpse of the beautiful mark she left on us.

A week or so ago, I had the most vivid dream. I stopped in my favorite bar and my friend Kristin greeted me, smiling ear to ear as if I’d just walked in on a funny conversation. “I didn’t know you worked here now!” I said, pleasantly surprised but perplexed. “I do! Come give me a hug,” she said as she whipped around the counter. Kristin passed away in March 2020, and although it felt as real as the last time I saw her, I knew it was a dream. And I stayed in it as long as I could to admire the way her eyes lit and lips curled when she laughed, to feel the warmth of her embrace. I like to think this was her way of sending a sweet hello, a gentle reminder that she lives on … somewhere. Reaching through to the other side.

When I was a kid, I developed a deep curiosity about death. From my earliest experience of loss — around the age of 5 — I couldn’t help but wonder where the departed went. They existed, they lived full lives, and then they were just … gone. I thought a lot about growing up, and how grown-ups always died. I decided I didn’t really want to be one.

As a teen, I desperately sought to prove that death wasn’t the end. I went “ghost hunting” with friends, in graveyards or “haunted” spaces, with audio recorders and several cameras — digital and film, black-and-white and color, with flash and without. We needed to cover all the bases. At some point, I messed around with Ouija boards and attempted seances. Was that unidentified blob in the photo an “orb”? What was that indecipherable whisper I heard on the tape playback? Did a summoned spirit blow out that candle?

Later, I read about quantum physics and the possibility of alternate realities and timelines. I studied various religions and beliefs on death across cultures. Eventually, I stopped looking for proof. A fruitless effort, really — too much to wrap one’s head around. I liked the way my thoughts went when I considered the law of conservation of energy: Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only converted from one form of energy to another. I am not a physicist, and whether or not this can be appropriately applied to life and death doesn’t matter much to me. It’s the idea of it. Because I have seen and felt the energy of everyone I’ve ever met. The imprints left in places, in minds, and on hearts. The deceased have lived and because of this, they live on. Their energy hasn’t been destroyed but transferred, transformed into a thing less tangible than physical existence, just outside of our three-dimensional view.

We can still feel them in dreams, in sunsets, in songs, in special places that held special moments. A butterfly in flight, a falling leaf, a soft breeze, the sound of rain on the roof, the smell of cookies baking. In remembering their smile lines, the times you laughed together until your cheeks hurt, the long talks and road trips and late nights.

Maybe death is just a door. To reincarnation, to heaven, to infinity, the unknown. And we’ll all gather again when it’s our time to step through.

________________________________________________

Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again! — Henry Scott Holland

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Like Caged Birds

The cage door is open. (Photo: Pavan Adepu | Unsplash)

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
— Maya Angelou

I recently stopped at Petco to pick up some treats for my three pups. I usually go straight to the shelf, grab the package, and head right to the checkout counter. But on this particular day, I was called, quite literally, to the other side of the store.

As the doors swung open, the cheeps and chirps of the birds kept in the corner hit my ears, and, as if pulled by some homing device, I floated over to them. Normally, I steer clear of that area; seeing the feathered beauties behind bars brings me down. How many of them make their way to new homes? How many spend their entire existence under harsh fluorescents in the back of a pet shop? And even if they’re bought, they’re forever in captivity. It just doesn’t sit well with me.

Anyhow, I was particularly drawn to the parakeets, their vibrant blues and greens and yellows, lovely creatures — like paintings come to life. As I stood simultaneously admiring and mourning them, an older gentleman walked up. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” he asked. I agreed, of course. He started telling me about his new puppy. How he works long hours and wishes he could make more time for it. How cute and fluffy and rambunctious it is. How he came to get some flea powder, but figured it’d probably be expensive, like everything else these days. He didn’t say so, but I sensed his loneliness, his urge to speak to a stranger in Petco just to make a small connection.

We pointed out which birds were our favorites. The pale peach one, the one with the bright teal hue — we’d never even seen such rich color before. We agreed it was sad to see them there, perched in a line like unpicked fruit, yet living, breathing, stretching out their wings with nowhere to go. Before we parted, he said, “What’s that saying about the caged bird? It makes you think, if they can still sing like this, what are we worried about?”

All in all, it was maybe a four- or five-minute encounter, but it left me with a warm, fuzzy feeling. Because amid all the noise in the news — from underground (the Earth’s core may have reversed rotation; what does it mean?), outer space (a solar polar vortex; is that a big deal?), nearer skies (spy balloons and UFOs), the nation (the toxic train derailment in Ohio), the city (another shooting spree last weekend; a separate shooting which claimed the life of a local beloved bartender) — the impression is that there’s a lot we could worry about. And that’s just scratching the surface. It’s enough to make you feel boxed in, caged without much reason to sing.

The curious part of that brief meeting was that after we talked, I made my way to the treats and then got in line to pay, but that nice gentleman who’d come for flea meds didn’t get anything at all. He walked away from the birds, and instead of browsing the aisles, went straight for the door. Maybe he forgot his wallet. Perhaps he changed his mind. Or maybe he got exactly what he was looking for: a moment of human connection, however fleeting; a small escape from his own lonesome cage.

We are all tired, weary of the worry. Not unlike those birds, wings clipped, clustered in cages built by the world, our government, our own minds — longing for freedom.

Consider, though, that the cage door is open. You’re not alone in this lonesome mess. We need only to sing — and fly.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Anniversary of a Murder

Me and Jessica circa 2000

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Sometimes it causes them to fester. This week will mark 12 years since my friend, Jessica Nicole Lewis, was murdered in South Memphis. Twelve years of unanswered questions. Twelve years knowing the man who took her life was able to continue living his, freely and without consequence.

On February 20, 2011, Jessica’s body was found in Mt. Carmel Cemetery, an unkempt graveyard at Elvis Presley and Elliston, about three miles north of Graceland and as many miles south of the Stax Museum of American Soul Music. There was evidence of a struggle; she’d been dragged through the grounds and shot in the head, the only clothing left on her battered body was underwear and a single sock.

We’d been close friends throughout high school and college, working two separate jobs together. We dated bandmates and arrived arm in arm to many concerts and parties during those years. She was the fiery, beautiful blonde who took no shit, and I was more or less her sidekick. It’d be impossible to share in this short space how much she meant to me or, after her death, how deep the need for justice would embed itself in me. As weeks and months and years went by with no movement in her case, I’d spend countless hours researching, poking through arrest records and crime reports, going down Facebook rabbit holes, and talking to people who knew her in her final days to try to find a single thread that might lead to her killer.

The following words are never easy to say: Jessica was a prostitute. In her last years, she was a drug addict, with arrests for possession of a crack pipe and solicitation. The last time I saw her, about two and half years before her death, she’d just gotten out of rehab, so I knew she had been struggling. But I had no idea how far she’d fallen. She had a pimp. She practically lived in shady hotels. She walked the streets. She walked the streets. I’ve yet to accept that this was her life and not a Lifetime movie.

Jessica, who was 28 at the time, wasn’t the only victim. On January 27, 2011, a “known prostitute,” according to reports, 31-year-old Tamakia McKinney, was found dead in the middle of Hemlock Street, about a mile from Mt. Carmel. Four days after Jessica’s death, another prostitute, 44-year-old Rhonda Wells, was found in the same cemetery. Two days after the discovery of Wells’ body, a fourth victim was shot in the face and left for dead on nearby Ledger Street. She survived.

A composite image of the suspect | Courtesy Memphis Police Department

Investigators believed the cases were connected. They retrieved shell casings linking two of the victims, as well as DNA samples from each crime scene. The survivor was able to give a description of the shooter: a Black male, around 24 years old, hair in cornrows. He drove a dark-colored Dodge Charger or Chrysler 300. Even with evidence, even with DNA, no one was ever charged. How do you not find a man who killed three women in a month’s time? I’ve formulated a few theories that I won’t get into here. And I’ve covered this case in news articles (within these pages) and a feature-length story (“A Voice for Jessica,” Memphis magazine, July 2016). I have met and interviewed the survivor. I worked closely with the cold case investigator, W.D. Merritt (who was almost as tenacious as I was about solving this case), before he passed from Covid in 2020. With so many murders in this city, I don’t expect much time to be spent investigating a 12-year-old case involving “prostitutes.” But had it been me? Had it been a school teacher, the daughter of a politician, a bank teller, or any other upstanding-citizen label you’d like to apply, these women would have had justice.

Jessica is never far from my mind, but as the anniversary of her murder approaches, I can’t help but paint a picture of her last days, the final horrifying moments before she was killed execution-style in a cemetery. I’ll never forget how the media sensationalized these killings, dehumanized the victims. Does time heal all wounds? Ask their mothers. Ask their children. Ask their friends. You’ll hear a resounding no.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

In a Fishbowl

Photo: Isselee | Dreamstime.com

I count myself lucky to never have used a dating app. I’ve pretty much been in one long-term relationship or another since high school, with blips of single/dating life between, so I’ve never had a need to join in the endless swiping — or whatever y’all are doing — on the variety of such apps that have become prevalent in recent years. I’m also glad to have been part of the meeting-people-in-person generation, before the World Wide Web took over so many aspects of our lives, including finding our perfect (or even just an okay) match via a never-ending selection of head shots and “about me” blurbs.

Hearing single friends dish on dating disasters, inappropriate DMs, and all sorts of meet-up mishaps is mind-numbing. Is it really that bad out there? Out of curiosity — and yes, research for this very column — I recently joined a local Facebook dating group, which claims it’s “a place for women to protect and empower other women while warning each other of men who might be liars, cheaters, abusers, or exhibit any type of toxic or dangerous behavior.” I’d found that dozens of my female friends — single, married, or otherwise partnered-up — were members (along with more than 6,500 others), and, well, I wanted to see what was going on in there.

The premise is harmless enough. You can find out if you’re getting played and/or warn others about abusive, cheating, narcissistic, or generally “toxic” men. But the reality is a little more convoluted. At times, it’s like witnessing a Jerry Springer episode unfold, with accusations and below-the-belt jabs in the comments sections. And so many of the posts — which typically include a photo of the gentleman in question, along with the inquiry “[tea emoji] or [red flag emoji]?” — are published anonymously, appearing as a question from an unknown “Group member.” I understand there could be circumstances that would necessitate anonymity when it comes to this type of thing, but after a few days as a silent observer, it’s leaving a bad taste. Are some of these “group members” simply hoping to stir the pot? Are they jilted lovers trolling for others to bash their ex or to prevent him from moving forward in another relationship? Wanting to start drama with current girlfriends, partners, or potentials? Some women provide info or experiences without the added bashing — and offer positive responses and recommendations to go ahead and date the guy — but it seems the group’s intent has been stretched into some warped reality-TV type territory. Grab your popcorn and settle into this week’s shit show.

I remember the days when you had to actually talk to and hang around a person to figure out if they were a creep or not. Never did I have the option to screenshot someone’s dating profile and post a poll for reviews. “Talked twice and then he ghosted me.” “He was nice but wanted to cuddle all the time, and we only chatted for a couple weeks.” “Total sex addict.” “Says he doesn’t have kids but has two who have nothing to do with him.” “Lives with his mom.” You get the idea. It’s a weird time we’re living in.

This group frames a bleak picture of the overall dating landscape in Memphis — and not just for women. But if the couples highlighted in this week’s cover story are any indication, enduring love exists. Their stories show that love isn’t just the butterflies and rainbows (though it has its magical moments) but also the challenges and growth two people experience on their journey together, the development of patience and understanding that carries them through the years.

You can find your person if you hang in there — perhaps without even trying. You may very well cross paths in the unlikeliest of places, off screen, in real life — in line at the bank, browsing the aisles of Cash Saver, or sitting at the bar of your favorite restaurant. Maybe you were too shy to introduce yourself to the cutie you locked eyes with at Hollywood Feed but you can’t get them out of your noggin. Let us help! We’re reviving the Flyer’s “I Saw You” missed connections. Send yours to isawyou@memphisflyer.com, and we’ll publish them in an upcoming issue. True love could be right around the corner.

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At Large Opinion

A Scorpion’s Sting

Tyre Nichols (Photo: Family of Tyre Nichols)

Somebody put some serious work into coming up with the acronym for SCORPION, which stands for Street Crimes Operation to Restore Peace In Our Neighborhoods. The operation was announced with some fanfare in late 2021 by Mayor Jim Strickland and Police Director C.J. Davis. The four 10-man units were assigned to work in high-crime areas, seeking to reduce the city’s rates of murder, carjacking, car theft, and other major felonies. As has now been reported, the officers often used “no tolerance” policing methods, pulling motorists over for low-level infractions, such as tinted windows or seat-belt violations, as an excuse to interrogate and search.

We still don’t know why SCORPION officers stopped 29-year-old Tyre Nichols near his home in the Hickory Hill neighborhood on January 7th, but, as is now well-documented after the release of a disturbing and nauseating video last Friday, we do know the officers aggressively pulled Nichols from his car, and though he cooperated fully with commands to lie on the ground, they struck him repeatedly and shot him with a taser.

Nichols fled the scene but was caught eight minutes later. Video from a nearby pole-mounted police camera showed five officers mercilessly beating Nichols with batons, face-kicks, and brutal punches to his head for more than three minutes. Nichols was then left on the ground for nearly a half-hour as his assailants stood around discussing possible alibis, ignoring him. Three days later, Nichols died from his injuries at St. Francis Hospital. Ten days after that, on January 20th, the officers were fired for violations of department policies, including excessive use of force, duty to intervene, and duty to render aid.

No one who watched that video can deny that this was a lynching, a cold-blooded murder of a young man whose death began with a routine traffic stop that escalated only because the cops wanted it to. The Nichols case made the MPD — and the city of Memphis — the lead story on the national news for several days. Reporters parachuted into town from all over, doing stand-up reporting from Memphis streets, covering the peaceful protests, and interviewing Memphis officials and politicians.

In the aftermath, the city got some things right. Davis denounced the officers’ actions, quickly fired them, and said of the video: “This is not just a professional failing. This is a failing of basic humanity toward another individual. … This incident was heinous, reckless, and inhumane.”

District Attorney Stephen Mulroy held a press conference to announce charges against the five officers, including second-degree murder, and urged consideration of police reform. (This is in stark contrast, it should be noted, to the former DA, who was reluctant to prosecute MPD officers for much of anything.)

The national news website Daily Beast contrasted Memphis’ response with that of New York in similar police-related cases: “This is how you do it. You give the officers due process. But you don’t serve as their defense attorney. … It’s notable that officials in a red state (albeit in a purplish city) appear more committed to accountability for police officers than they are … in New York City.”

City officials — and Nichols’ mother RowVaughn Wells — asked residents “to protest in peace. I don’t want us burning our city, tearing up our streets.” And Memphis, again, got it right. Demonstrators were unfailingly peaceful. Tyre Nichols’ life was celebrated — and his death was mourned with calm, power, and dignity.

Now here we are, and now the real work begins. The Nichols family deserves swift justice. Those officers need to go to prison for a long time. But MPD needs to be rebuilt from the ground up — and maybe from the top down — starting with those who thought SCORPION was a good idea. It was not. It propagated a toxic “cop culture” that was allowed free rein under the guise of restoring peace to our neighborhoods. Davis announced the deactivation of the unit on Saturday, which is a start.

Perhaps Lawrence Turner, pastor of Mississippi Boulevard Christian Church, where Nichols’ funeral will be held this week, said it best: “Today can mark the beginning of the Second Civil Rights Movement: beyond individual equality to systemic equality. We demand a system that manifests justice for all, not the privileged few, in Tyre’s name — each day going forward until we overcome.”

It’s our turn, Memphis. The world is still watching.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Look for the Helpers

When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

— Fred Rogers

Just a few weeks into the new year and Memphis has already had its fair share of “scary things in the news.” Feeds are inundated with seemingly endless reports of homicides, shootings, car thefts, robberies, and near abductions.

Last week, five officers with the Memphis Police Department were fired after the death of 29-year-old Tyre Nichols — a father with no criminal record — following a fatal traffic stop. An administrative investigation determined the officers “violated multiple department policies, including excessive use of force, duty to intervene, and duty to render aid,” according to a statement from MPD. Nichols’ family was allowed to view the body-cam footage this past Monday, and their attorney Ben Crump says the last words Nichols spoke on the video were calls for his mother.

We’ve also lost a handful of Memphis icons this month with the passing of Gangsta Boo, Lisa Marie Presley, Vincent Astor, and Dr. Charles A. Champion. These tragedies and losses just scratch the surface of these first 23 days of 2023 — and this is without mentioning the horrors beyond our city, state, and country. It has been a rough start. And with so much bad news circling, it can be difficult to see the good that’s still — and always — happening in our periphery.

To bring some of that good to the forefront — and highlight a few of those much-needed “helpers” — we’re happy to share with you the 20 < 30 Class of 2023. Within this annual issue, we feature a group of 20 individuals under the age of 30 who are doing work in our community to ignite innovation and push for positive change. The Flyer first introduced this cover feature in 2010, and in the years since, we’ve found determined young people working in various fields, from healthcare to scientific research, advocacy to activism, restaurants to real estate, arts to education, and much more in between.

Each year, we ask our readers to submit nominations for the best and brightest 20-somethings they know, and each year without fail, we receive dozens of emails introducing us to the younger generation aimed at making Memphis a better place. Our team sits down and sorts through these nominations to select just 20 among them to profile in our pages — narrowing this kind of talent pool down is a task I wouldn’t wish on any of you. Every one of them deserves recognition, and we’d love to include them all.

Without further ado, we welcome you to read about this year’s honorees as we celebrate their accomplishments, goals, and contributions to the progress we so hope to see. These are the young people paving the way; they’re the helpers lighting the path toward a brighter future. Let their aspirations be a hopeful beacon for us all.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Cracking the Case of Soaring Egg Prices

Photo: Shara Clark

There has been a lot of talk about eggs lately. I can’t tell you how many egg memes I’ve seen, with people attempting to make light of pocketbook pangs from purchasing this kitchen staple. Friends out west are paying more than $7 a dozen, and down south I’m hearing reports of 18-packs costing around $11. So what’s the deal? I did some digging to try and help crack the case (yes, I went there) on egg prices.

I needed to pick up a few things, eggs included, so I stopped at the nearest Superlo last Monday. The shelves were much more bare than usual, with none of the fancy cage-free/organic options available at all. A few stacks of Best Choice regular ol’ eggs were on offer, ranging from about $3.99 to $5.99, depending on size and color (don’t ask why brown eggs are higher — or why some eggs are brown to begin with; those are questions to explore another day). So, okay, something is going on here — but what?

The U.S. Department of Labor (DOL) listed the December 2022 national average for a dozen eggs at $4.25. For comparison, that number was $3.59 the previous month, and $1.79 a year ago. On January 12th, the DOL released its current Consumer Price Index, showing increases and decreases (mostly the former, sadly) in various spending categories. According to the release, “The index for meats, poultry, fish, and eggs increased 1.0 percent in December [from November], as the index for eggs rose 11.1 percent.” A closer look at the report shows that items in the “food at home” category rose 11.8 percent from December 2021 to December 2022. Under that umbrella, several groupings saw significant year-over-year increases — cereals and bakery products (16.1 percent); meats, poultry, fish, and eggs (7.7 percent); and dairy and related products (15.1 percent) among them. Ouch.

Alright, we know inflation has hit a number of industries, but what else? One major factor is the 2022 avian flu outbreak, which to date has affected nearly 60 million chickens in 47 states, exceeding the 50.5 million birds in 21 states that were affected by the 2015 outbreak, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), that caused egg prices to soar to a then-record-high of $2.96/dozen in September of that year. The CDC data shows that from September to December 2022, more than 150,000 chickens were affected in Tennessee facilities alone.

In an email response, Dale Barnett, executive director of the Tennessee Poultry Association, says that beyond the effects of bird flu, inflation, and “lingering supply chain challenges due to Covid,” there’s another component: “The exorbitant costs associated with the ongoing conversion to cage-free egg production systems (to meet the near-future goals and requirements of an increasing number of major grocers and restaurant chains) has been substantial.”

Barnett directed me to an editorial by Terrence O’Keefe in Egg Industry magazine for further clarification. O’Keefe writes that “10 U.S. states have passed legislation mandating sales of cage-free eggs, either now or at some future date.” Tennessee is not included among them at present. He continues, “The two largest grocers in the U.S., Walmart and Kroger, each backed away from prior 100 percent cage-free egg purchase pledges in the summer of 2022. This means cage-produced eggs will be available at retail in many U.S. states for several years. … Who an egg producer sells to and what states the customer does business in will determine whether a farm will go cage-free or keep its cages.”

The U.S. Department of Agriculture’s recent Egg Markets Overview states that current cage-free commitments require “66.7 billion cage-free eggs per year to meet 100 percent of needs from an approximate cage-free flock of 221.4 million hens … indicating a shortage of 133.4 million hens.”

As you can see, there’s much ado in the egg world (way more than I’ve been able to lay — heh — out here). There’s no clear timeline for when we’ll see things balance out, but one thing’s for sure: If the chicken comes before the egg, we’re going to need a lot more chickens.

Categories
At Large Opinion

Daze of Christmas Past

Photographerlondon | Dreamstime.com

It started with a backache in October. It seemed like a muscle pull or pinched nerve but it wouldn’t stop hurting. I went to two noted local clinics, each of which suggested different possible causes but offered no real relief from the pain. Finally, I tried acupuncture, which alleviated the symptoms enough that I thought maybe I’d turned the corner.

Then things got scary. On December 13th, I was walking my dogs when I noticed my left foot felt weak and a little floppy. I called my physician, Dr. Warren, and got an appointment for three days later. My wife Tatine accompanied me. After a brief check of my vitals and listening to me describe my symptoms, Warren said, “You’re going to the emergency room at Methodist right now.” And so the holiday festivities began.

After an hour, I was wheeled into a CT scan and then returned to a hallway to await results. Two hours later, the ER physician came out and said, quickly, “It’s cancer. You have a small mass in your chest. We’ll need to biopsy it and see what we’re dealing with.”

Well, merry dang Christmas. Tatine and I sat for a bit, like tornado survivors in a split-open house trailer. What the hell?

The next couple of days were a blur. Family and friends came and went and I put up a smile and a thumb. I then experienced the hospital’s panoply of tubular machines that inhale your body and look at its interior. The cacophonous MRI experience was an hour of bangs and audio distortion that I’ve yet to quite understand. But the good news was that the cancer seemed isolated to a single spot.

We began a series of meetings with doctors from cardiology, neurology, and oncology. The tumor was a thumb-sized growth that had attached to the front of my spine. The plan was for the neurologists to stabilize the spine from the backside with pins, and then when that was done, a treatment protocol for the tumor — once the biopsy came back and we knew what kind of cancer we were dealing with — would be created. So, on the fifth day of Christmas, I got major back surgery and a new Franken-spine. Two days later, the biopsy results indicated that I had a “curable” stage I lymphoma that could be treated with chemo over the next few months, a gift for which I’m obviously quite thankful.

The next three days were what I’ve come to recall as my “disco dreams” period. I was in the ICU and had access to a handy little pump that would allow me to give myself a nice pain-killing sedative every hour during the night. I was taking lots of other pills and the interaction was somewhat psychedelic. My sleep was full of flashing lights and rolling trains and groove music, interrupted on the hour, every hour, sadly, by nurses giving me meds, checking my vitals, taking my blood. My night visitors kept breaking up the party.

After ICU, I was moved to another room to begin my “plugged-in” phase, wherein bleeping tubes dripped medicines into my body and other tubes removed liquids from my body and I felt like a tank being simultaneously drained and filled.

Meanwhile, in the outside world, pipes were freezing, water was being boiled, blackouts were rolling. My family was gathering for meals and holiday rituals and I was watching movies on my laptop, my choices purely whimsical: My Man Godfrey, The Tender Bar, Slap Shot, The Man in the High Castle, some Harry Potter thing. I wanted out. Christmas was coming.

Christmas Eve arrived and after my family left, it was down to my favorite nurse Vitarn and me. I was feeling melancholy. We wished each other merry merry and I turned out the lights. (It was only later that I was gently told that “Vitarn” was really Vita, who signed her name on the white board as “Vita rn.”) Anyway, Vita and I had a lovely Christmas morning together, before Dr. Warren came in, checked me over, and said if neurology approved, I could go home.

By midday, I was good to go and stepping gingerly into the front seat of our car. I will not soon forget the odd pale daylight, how strange it felt being outside for the first time in 12 days, how quiet the traffic-less stretch of Union Avenue seemed to be on this, the strangest Christmas ever.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

New Year, Same Me?

Any day is a good day to start anew. (Photo: Behnam Norouzi | Unsplash)

Happy New Year, all, and welcome to 2023! Did y’all eat your black-eyed peas and greens on New Year’s Day? I made a big pot of collards and cabbage, a pan of cornbread, and a pile of peas in hopes of ushering in some luck and money, although when I think back on literally every other year I’ve done this as an adult, I can’t recall any particular instance where it might have made a measurable difference. “Remember that one time I won $10 on a scratch-off? Had to be those peas!” said no one, ever.

Regardless, each year will have its highs and lows, and luck — good or otherwise. I’m not so sure how much a plate of food will alter that. This go-round, I even followed the “don’t do laundry on January 1st” rule, although I read somewhere a few days ago that it’s actually supposed to be the last Friday of the previous year and the first Friday of the new year that are avoided. Oops, I guess. Will someone I love die because I washed my clothes on the wrong day? Gosh, I hope not. What happens if I don’t eat my greens on the right day? To me, all these superstitions merely add to the stresses and expectations we place on ourselves when we turn the page on our calendars.

“New year, new me!” people proclaim. There’s nothing wrong with setting resolutions and fixing your sights on goals. In fact, data exists to explain why it’s healthy to do so. A quick search shows that, among other things, reflecting on the prior year and aiming for changes and/or planning to drop bad habits and create good ones gives us inspiration, hope, and a sense of responsibility as we face our next rotation around the sun. But I think it’s important to be realistic and honest with ourselves — and not to burden our brains with all the things we think we’ve been doing “wrong” in the last year or so.

In this first issue back after the holiday break, we’ve always done some variation of a “New Year, New Me” cover story — wherein we ponder ways in which we can better ourselves with physical activity, staying hydrated, reading more, drinking less, putting down our cell phones, discarding clutter, all that stuff we say we’re gonna do but often abandon after the first week or two. This time, our staff put a little less emphasis on the “new me” part and focused on ways in which we can more fully embrace our city — by further exploring interests, picking up new hobbies (or dusting off old ones), or stepping a little outside of our comfort zones (or living rooms or favorite bars or zip codes) — and discover parts of Memphis we may not have known existed. And perhaps in the process uncover parts of ourselves that have been hidden or dormant, to reinvigorate and renew our lives in ways large or small.

Now that we’re past the holiday pressures — to buy this, do that, go there — let’s resolve to ease into whatever it is we want to achieve in 2023. (A study done by the University of Scranton says only 8 percent of folks follow through with resolutions anyhow, so why not set the bar a little lower and go up from there?) Of course, I’d like to be in better shape, to lose some of the weight I gained last year, see my friends and family more, etc. But I won’t promise myself that I’ll keep a daily journal or meticulously fill out and follow a weekly planner or count calories at every meal. I will, though, reiterate the suggestion I offered in my last editor’s column of 2022: Be gentle on yourself. Goals are good. Self-discipline is great. But don’t let a lack thereof push you into a state of self-loathing or unrest. Take it one step at a time. There’s no starting gun signaling the beginning of a new race, and there’s no finish line at the end of a certain month. You can be the same “you” you were last year if you want (we actually love you just the way you are). And you can begin anew any day or time you wish.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Through Light and Dark

Always look for silver linings. (Photo: Soumyadip Sarkar | Unsplash)

“Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness. It is far better to take things as they come along with patience and equanimity.” — Carl Jung

As we near the end of 2022, I’m reflecting on the year that was, one in which I learned more than any prior about the importance of taking things as they come with patience and equanimity. Personally, it was one of the toughest in recent memory, not counting 2020 — I think we can agree that was one big WTF for us all. But this year brought a great deal of loss for me (three of my grandparents and an uncle passed away). And a great deal of stress (one notable experience: I panic-bought a house). Though it wasn’t without its celebratory moments (panic or no, I did become a homeowner). And successes (I was promoted to editor-in-chief of this fine publication).

At my age, “I’m sorry for your loss” has become more a part of regular dialogue. And fumbles and foibles are standard fare. Getting older has its growing pains (literally and metaphorically), and consistently presents new learning opportunities. We’re all figuring things out as we go, and there are no perfect days — but some are better than others. And the not-so-great ones help remind us to savor the near-perfect ones and to take things in stride. Because there will always be more “things” to get through.

This year, too, has been one of losses and triumphs for Memphis, as you’ll read in this — our double issue. For our staff to have the fortunate ability to take some time off around the holidays, we present this year-end edition, dated December 22nd through January 4th, which will be on newsstands for two full weeks. Within, we’ve used the cover story “Let’s Get Wild & Free” for predictions, and a look ahead, for 2023 — in business development, politics, music, film, and sports. Our writers have utilized their regular column spaces for year-in-review features — a recap of news and more from 2022. It reveals some of the low, even horrific moments our city — and country — endured. But it also displays how much we’ve rebounded from the pandemic peak, with the sports, live music, and film worlds flourishing once again.

Even with all that’s happened in the last 12 months — the ups and downs and stagnant in-betweens — it still somehow feels like we just shot off the bottle rockets on New Year’s Eve. A strange thing, time. Maybe in 2023, we can embrace this chance to start anew, recognize the lessons in hardships, pause for clarity when necessary, and face what may come — the good and the bad — with empathy and courage.

We’ll leave you with this issue until our next newspaper hits stands (January 5, 2023). In the meantime, some final thoughts for you. This week, a friend shared a 2021 tweet from J.S. Park (@jsparkblog) that still resonates. It read: “My therapist, instead of saying ‘happy holidays,’ says, ‘May you have a gentle holiday.’ Her reason: The holidays are not happy for everyone. The hope is that they’re gentle for us, that we are gentle on ourselves. #selfcare.”

In the hustle of the holidays, remember that not everyone has family or friends with whom to celebrate — or the means to give as generously as they’d like to. It can be a solitary time for some, and an overwhelming time with many road trips and gatherings for others. The stores are packed, retail and restaurant staff are spread thin. Package sorters, delivery drivers, and postal employees are working overtime to get your gifts to where they need to be. In this often stressful season, remember to be gentle on yourself. But remember, too, to be gentle with the people you encounter. You don’t know what they’re going through, and your smile might be one that lights an otherwise dark day.

Best wishes to you all as we ready to rock a brand-new year, wherein there will surely be both light and dark but also a hell of a lot of promising possibilities.